


Going Viral

by emergencyfruit



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 10:50:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4218921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emergencyfruit/pseuds/emergencyfruit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rimmer’s astronavs are tomorrow morning, and as usual, he’s in a bit of a crisis.  Hoping to improve his abilities, he tries to infect himself with the luck virus, but takes a megadose of confidence instead.  As he rapidly experiences the effects of the virus, he grows increasingly reckless, euphoric, and erratic, in the exam room and beyond.  It’s all just harmless fun until Rimmer becomes convinced he can upgrade the ship’s recyc system, and what’s more, his light bee is starting to fail under the strain of all this energy.  The crew needs to bring him down – fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story, and I’ve tried to make it as humorous and over the top as possible while remaining true to character. Infinite thanks to Kahvi for her patient beta work and for welcoming me into the wonderful world of fanfic to begin with! Additional thanks to the United States Coast Guard for supplying a much-needed template for Chapter 3. All comments welcome (seriously), and thanks for reading!

By all accounts, it was a typical Saturday night in deep space for the Starbug crew. Lister and Cat were playing a Junior Angler drinking game in the mini-pub, Kryten had powered down for the night, and Rimmer sat alone at the table in the bunkroom, cramming for the next morning’s Beginning Astronavigation exam, and cursing his terrible luck. Even though he’d made his timetable months ago, circumstances entirely beyond his control had prevented him from following it – Lister had been up to his usual antics, of course, plus a time hole had surgically subtracted two weeks from the universe, and not to mention there had been that rather nasty incident with the GELF hybrid and the breakfast kippers. That had taken weeks of valuable time to clean up, and as a result, Rimmer hadn’t even started revisions yet. Not for the first time, he now had one night to learn, review, and master the entire course. And, as usual, his progress was slower than the express checkout line at Seniors R Us.

“CUTIE: Current under tension is… is…” Exhausting. Enraging. Endless. Rimmer dropped his hand and let his face fall forward into the well-worn textbook in front of him. He winced at the sharp and sudden pains in his nose and chin, courtesy of his new hard light form, but it was satisfying to hear the thud and to be able to express frustration physically again. Lately, all he’d felt was irritation and outrage with these damned astronavs. What kind of gimboid can’t pass even Beginning Astronavigation by his thirteenth try? Then again, it wasn’t his fault; he’d opened the textbook at least twenty times, skimmed the first three chapters repeatedly, and slept with it under his pillow most nights – what more could one man do? But dead or alive, no matter how many times he revised and sat for the exam, he still couldn’t master even the most basic principles, and if he couldn’t recall them here, on his own, at his own pace, he knew he’d be hopeless in the exam room. Again.

He groaned in frustration, and looked up to see that it was just after midnight. The exam was in eight hours, and, stuck on chapter two, he’d made no meaningful progress. He’d already registered for the exam on the evaluation computer, and boasted to Lister of his impending victory, so he could hardly back out now, but his mind protested at any further revision tonight. Maybe a quick walk would help clear his head. Not far, just to the medibay and back, but hopefully it would help him relax. He rose unsteadily, and trudged towards the door.

He was sick of astronavigation and sick of the exam process. And worst of all, he was sick of trying to even the playing field. It wasn’t his fault that the exam computer’s marking standards hadn’t been updated since the 23rd century, and were still keyed to the Academy training he had never received. All he needed was just the slightest bit of advantage to compensate for this handicap, but it seemed like every time he tried, the universe threw a fish in his face. It was always the same story; what was the point of trying it all again? He first had to scheme new ways to help him marshal the facts already in his command, which taxed his intellect to the limit and distracted him from revisions. Lister called it cheating, and the onboard exam computer probably would as well if it ever found out, but it wasn’t Rimmer’s fault that the system was rigged against him. Still, even once his plan was in place, the anxiety of being disqualified was all-consuming, and self-sabotage was inevitable. Was it any wonder by the time the actual exam rolled around, he had always gone more than slightly bonkers? 

Things hadn’t been any easier when he was alive, either. Probably the worst episode had been that time he’d ingested a garbage pod’s worth of learning drugs, and due to an unfortunate breakfast companion, his exam answer was an 80,000 word manifesto on the history, societal significance, and thermodynamics of toast and toastable bread products. Traditional schoolboy tricks hadn’t helped either - even faking a seizure to peek at someone else’s exam hadn’t worked (though in his defense, the plan had worked flawlessly until he was seated next to Stinky Cunningham. Who still used cursive in the 23rd century? Get with the times!). It never made any difference; no matter how much he strategized and prepared, every time he sat for astronav, he couldn’t even navigate his way out of the exam room unassisted. After thirteen failures, with a fourteenth looming on the horizon, it was starting to get embarrassing. 

Rimmer gloomily entered the medibay and drifted around the room, letting his eyes roam the various instruments and equipment. The lights were dim this time of night, and the only bit of light and color came from a shimmering rainbow of test tubes stored in a rack on the back shelf, samples of the positive viruses that Lister and the others had recovered from Professor Lanstrom’s ruined laboratory a few months back. What a horrible, humiliating ordeal that had been, contracting that awful holovirus. Rimmer hadn’t even known he could be infected by viruses as a hologram, but now a whole new chasm of fears and paranoia over his health had opened up for him. Particularly with his new hard light drive, he could never be certain whether he was susceptible to illnesses, or how they might manifest. Though at least now he had a dignified excuse if he decided to skip tomorrow’s exam – he could always just tell the others that he was sick. Not even Lister could criticize him for missing an exam if he’d come down with a bug…

Suddenly, Rimmer’s eyes and nostrils flared wide. If he could be infected with a holovirus, then maybe… True, he didn’t know for certain how it would affect him, if at all, but what did he have to lose? If he didn’t have some type of assistance, there was no point in him sitting for the exam tomorrow, and he knew it. In his excitement, he yanked the rack off the shelf, searching for luck. 

The test tubes were filled with neon-bright colors from all over and beyond the rainbow. They radiated promise and opportunity, the ability to enhance any feature or veil any flaw, if only temporarily. Luck, sexual magnetism, creativity, confidence, empathy, charisma, you could come down with any quality you could possibly desire. He’d seen the luck virus once, when Lister brought it back to the ship and into quarantine. If memory served, it was blue, or at least some remarkably bluey shade of green. Scanning the tray now, Rimmer spotted two different blue vials. The first was a rich, royal blue, labeled “ _felicitus populi_ (bonŝancon).” The second was a brilliant, almost radiant sky blue, titled “ _confidentia_ (memfido).” 

Rimmer frowned. _Drat_. He couldn’t even guess on the Esperanto, but maybe he could figure out the Latin. English came from Latin, right? It couldn’t be that difficult. He stared at the first tube. _Felicitus populi_. Must be…feline popularity? That didn’t sound anything like luck. The Cat must have gotten this one custom-programmed, or maybe it was a sample from him, an attempt to isolate his arrogance and vanity (hopefully to cure it; he’d been insufferable since day one). No, _felicitus populi_ was right out. But _confidentia_? What could that mean other than ‘confidential,’ and what could be more jealously guarded than a good luck virus? Enough of the stuff and you could probably rule the entire universe with a well-timed snap of your fingers. Yes, this had to be it! Rimmer picked up the luminous tube and uncorked it, but then hesitated. Maybe he should double-check this first. Wasn’t it in his best interest to make absolutely sure that this really was luck he was taking? For all he knew, it could be Lister’s most recent urine sample; the color was certainly consistent.

On the other hand, time was probably of the essence if he wanted the full effect. When he was alive, generally a few days would pass between some inconsiderate goit sneezing in the lift and Rimmer waking up with a full-blown space cold, complete with runny nose and a concentrated fever burning up one of his arms. With the exam in less than twelve hours, though, Rimmer hoped that for once, his immune system was as exhausted, unprepared, and pessimistic as he felt.

He held the test tube up to the light, in a jeering toast to his own desperation, and then knocked back the entire contents like a double whiskey with cherry and lemonade. But as luck would have it, the taste was actually rather pleasant, like a fresh-picked, fortifying orange with generous zest. It tasted clean, bold, and energetic, exactly the restorative Rimmer needed. He savored the aftertaste for a moment before replacing the empty tube in the rack and heading back to his quarters. If this really was luck, he’d have an exam perfectly tailored to the questions and subjects he knew best waiting for him in the morning. Even a mild infection might be enough to give him a ninety-point extra credit question on how to spell his own name.

On returning to the bunk room, Rimmer instinctively headed back towards his desk to start his recording of ‘Learn Astronavigation While You Sleep’. He always played it the night before an exam, in part because no matter how worried and restless he felt, his eyes always grew heavy within the first thirty seconds. But tonight, he paused. Did he really need to hear the instructor drone on for the fourteenth time about time holes and biosextants and how to calculate stoppage time for a reverse landing on Europa? Or could he muster like a man and sleep alone among the stars? After all, if luck was on his side, he didn’t need the program. If not, he knew it wouldn’t make a difference anyhow.

He turned away and walked over to his bunk, and began to fluff up his pillow instead. He felt… strangely calm, oddly comfortable with his decision that he didn’t need to revise any further tonight. He didn’t need the instructor’s monotonous whine to drown out the constant chatter of his anxieties – for quite possibly the first time in his entire life or death, Rimmer’s mind was at peace. Maybe tomorrow would be his final attempt at this exam after all, because with every moment, he became more and more convinced that he was going to pass. A rare smile began to snake its way across his face, and with a sigh of contentment, he closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

“TO GANYMEDE AND TITAN, YES SIR, I’VE BEEN AROUND!”

Less than an hour after Lister had crashed into the bunkroom with the start of a monstrous hangover, he awoke to the nightmarish sound of something laughing and belting out pub songs in the bathroom. What the smeg? Hadn’t he _told_ Kryten’s spare heads, no more karaoke nights? Lister struggled to sit up, and tried to remember where he’d left his crowbar, but as he flailed, he realized that the caterwauling wasn’t the spare heads trying to start the universe’s first barbershop trio. In fact, wait a tic… No. No, no, no, there was no way that Arnold Judas Rimmer was _singing_ in the _shower_. But just as Lister tried to come to grips with the unthinkable, both the yodeling and the water pipes suddenly silenced. Lister held his breath. Ten seconds later, Rimmer strode out of the steaming shower unit in his favorite blue bathrobe, with a bright smile of unbridled joy. That was never a good sign. Rimmer hadn’t looked this satisfied or relaxed since the last time he’d found the puncture repair kit and gone 18 rounds with Rachel in a single afternoon. Now, as he began to towel off his hair, Rimmer glanced up, met Lister’s bewildered stare, and broke into an even broader grin. 

“Ah, Lister, you’re awake! I thought you might be, on a morning as splendid as this!” 

Lister was not amused in the slightest. “Rimmer, it’s 5:30 in the smegging morning, and I’ve got a hangover brewing that could level Neptune. What the smeg have you been drinking; me marijuana gin? That’s three whole dollarpounds a shot, you twonk!”

Rimmer rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly in amusement. “Relax, Lister, neither I nor any other halfway-civilized life form has any interest in your prized poison. Besides, who needs intoxicants on a day like today? It’s a marvelous, magnificent morning, the beginning of a new day with new opportunities for a new and better life!” 

Lister stared back at Rimmer in confusion and annoyance, and then shook his head. Rimmer always got like this before an exam, trying to convince Lister and therefore himself that he was capable of passing, though he had never seemed quite so cheerful and sincere about it before. Still, Lister was in no mood to handle Rimmer’s ego. “Yeah, Rimmer, sure, whatever you say.” He sank back into bed and pulled up the covers. “Can you do me a solid and go revise somewhere else, though? It’s too early in the morning for your astronav crap.”

“No revisions this morning, Lister, there’s no need,” Rimmer stated briskly as he carefully combed his hair. “I’ll have to dasherooni in a moment, though; I just finished twelve laps around the cargo hold and I want to brush up on my Portuguese before the exam. Plus, I still need to download the new AI and personality program for the recyc system for this afternoon. Shouldn’t take long to install, just need to pop down, wetsuit up, connect a few wires, flip a few switches, and Frank’s your uncle!” He was speaking way too fast for Lister, who caught everything on a five second delay.

“Wait, wait, you’re not revising? That’s not like you. And hang on, we’re three million years into deep space, Rimmer, what the smeg do you want to know Portuguese for? And you’re planning to do what to the recyc system? Why? Who wants or needs to have a conversation with the water pipes while you’re in the loo?” Lister sat back up, frowning. “Are you all right, man? Did you copy the book onto your body again with that supposedly non-toxic felt tip? I told ya, Rimmer, all bets are off when you put a gallon of it on every square inch of your skin! For smeg’s sake, why don’t you just get the notes tattooed on once and for all?”

Having gelled and perfectly parted his hair, Rimmer snapped the towel from around his neck and tossed it carelessly onto a nearby chair. “I’m better than all right, Lister! I feel spectacular.” Almost with a swagger, he turned around, dropped his robe, and pulled out his exam uniform, a boiler suit custom-equipped with extra pockets for highlighters, pens, and protractors. Lister was surprised to see that Rimmer had no visible writing or diagramming on his body, but quickly turned his head in disgust when Rimmer bent over to pull up his pants. “No, I’m perfectly fine, Listy,” Rimmer continued as he zipped up the jumpsuit and turned back around to face a grimacing Lister, “and what’s more, I don’t need any crackpot advice on tattoos from a man whose right buttock is permanently in love with, if not encrusted with, chicken vindaloo. ‘You complete me,’ indeed.”

“Crackpot?” Lister was getting annoyed. “Getting a tattoo is not crackpot, Rimmer, it’s brilliant with a capital brill! For one, it’d be cheaper than killing an eight-pack of felt tips four times a year. You could get it done with real ink, too, that kind that doesn’t turn green after three days or give you hives under all the vowels. And it’s not like the JMC could kick you out for cheating if you can’t take it off, can they? They let Selby sit for exams, and he had that birthmark shaped like Einstein! And look, Rimmer, just face it – we both know that no matter how many times you copy that same book down, you’re just going to need it again the next time. Save us the hassle, make it permanent.” 

Rimmer calmly fastened his sleeve buttons with aplomb. “No, Lister, not anymore. It would be of no value after today, because I’m going to pass this time. I don’t need any outside assistance or additional notes, because everything I need to be successful is already within me.” 

“What, the slide rule and pre-sharpened pencils too? Can I have three guesses on where you’ve stored those?” Lister mocked. For some reason, it was really starting to get on his nerves that he couldn’t get on Rimmer’s nerves. But no, to the contrary, Rimmer laughed. 

“Very funny, Lister! But as I said, today I know everything I need to know, and that’s all that matters.” He finished adjusting his uniform, and looked up at Lister with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. Lister rolled his in return, but Rimmer didn’t seem to care. He grabbed his briefcase off the table, snapped Lister a crisp salute, and marched towards the door with an unshakeable air of purpose and pride.

“That’s right, Rimmer. All you’ve got to remember is F-I-S-H,” Lister smirked after him.

“Fluids inclusive in spectral hydrography,” Rimmer called back, as he closed the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

After another bracing hike, _oito_ translation exercises, and a lengthy phone call to All-Droid Express, Rimmer took his usual seat in the far back right of the exam room. In the past, this would allow him the greatest vantage point for sidelong glances to other examinees’ papers without getting caught, but of course, no one else was in the room with him today, other than a skutter and the proctorbot. Once Rimmer was situated, the skutter jerkingly dropped a sheet of paper face-down on Rimmer’s desk. The proctorbot blared the standard warnings and instructions, and then started the clock. Rimmer had three hours to answer a single question. 

_All right, luck, show me “How many planets are in the solar system?”!_ He crossed his fingers and flipped the paper over.

“On 4 July 2281, at 0630 ZT, at 4,691 feet above sea level in Callisto’s ionosphere, the ship’s position was Lat. 21° 15.0’ S, Long. 20° 20.0’ W. Your vessel is at 13.0 knots on a course of 146° T, and accelerating at 2.0 knots per minute. A sextant observation of the Sun's lower limb is made at 0915 ZT. The chronometer reads 10h 14m 27s, and the sextant altitude is 25° 29.8’. The index error is 3.1’ off the arc, and the chronometer is 0m 53s slow. You are 63.25 inches tall, and your height of eye on the bridge is 48.1 feet. What is the azimuth of this sight using the assumed position? Please diagram and label your work.”

Huh. Well, he hadn’t expected this, but luck must work in mysterious ways. Maybe it was a trick question; he could probably just guess whatever he wanted, and it would be correct. He shrugged, picked up his pen with a dramatic flourish, and began writing. “To know the azimuth of this sight using the assumed position, it is first necessary to know what azimuth is, what the sight is, what the position is, and why it is assumed. The following diagram will clarify these questions.” True, he was making it all up on the fly, but what did the marking computer know anyhow? How many times had _it_ taken this exam? Who would you trust to best answer the question, an uptight, out-of-date, twenty-third-century bastard of a software program that had probably never even seen an azimuth, or a real person, down in the trenches, who’d taken the exam thirteen times already, plus done actual astronavigation in real life? There probably wasn’t an entity dead or alive who knew better than he did how a proper answer to this question should look. 

He rapidly began to scribble a model of Jupiter and its surrounding moons, and drew a large box to represent the ship. Although, to be precise, he should properly contour the vessel, in case atmospheric resistance would be an issue. And he should indicate exactly where he was standing on the bridge, of course. And if he was going to add himself, he should draw in the rest of the crew as well, for scale and to show the weight distribution on the ship. Though assuming it was a mining ship, he’d also need to account for the weight of the equipment in front and cargo in back, plus any passengers. Maybe one thousand, probably roaming about the ship, so he’d best scatter some dots to represent them. And skutters, there must be some skutters on board, and those were deceptively heavy. Better add them in as well, but with triangles. Yes, yes, he could feel the extra points being added! Now though, he’d lost track of himself on the diagram. He located a stick figure and placed a tiny H on its forehead. Not obvious enough. Better add a suit and a row of circles for his Long Service medals. And come to think of it, this was his diagram, and his hypothetical, and he could be an admiral if he wanted. Now was a chance to show the universe what a natural and effective officer he would make! He grabbed his highlighters and carefully commissioned the stick figure a hat and jacket, complete with pips and piping. Though now, of course, he needed to designate the first mate, and a second, and draw a padded seat on the bridge to show where he would sit, and detail the officers’ lounge room, and list the current meal being served at mess hall…


	4. Chapter 4

When Lister awoke a second time later that morning, he was so dehydrated that his eyes clicked when he blinked. He felt like absolute death, with breath that would probably take him there if he inhaled too quickly. “Rimmer,” he groaned as he stumbled out of the bunkroom and down to the medibay, “I’ve changed me mind; you can borrow my body again if you like. Just promise you’ll keep it at least a week.” 

He hadn’t gotten hungover in ages, but then, you had to be careful with homeopathic wine – the less you drank, the stronger the effect, so while a bottle or two would give you a light buzz, a single shot could clobber even a hearty drinker. Lister had foolishly challenged the Cat to a Junior Angler drinking game, which the Cat promptly lost. Consequently, twenty minutes in, Lister had only taken two shots, while the Cat had lapped up the rest of the bottle. Lister was pretty sure he had passed out on the floor at Barbug’s shortly thereafter, and when he staggered to his knees around 4am to begin the long crawl back to bed, the Cat was long gone. 

While Kryten was preparing a six-foot fried egg sandwich with extra chili sauce and a full jar of mango chutney, Lister roamed the medibay in desperate hopes of a more potent remedy. There had to be a rehydration compound somewhere, or at least some UltrAspirin. He noticed then that someone had left the positive virus tray out on the table. There had to be one for good health, or vitality. Smeg, even some bravery might be enough to help reduce the nausea. He pawed through the tubes. Charisma, empathy, luck, confidence… His forehead knotted. _That’s weird. What happened to the confidence virus? Hang on, you don’t suppose…_

“Good morning, sir, breakfast is ready in the kitchen,” Kryten called from the doorway. 

“Can’t you bring it here, Krytes? I don’t think I can make it over there without leaving pieces of its predecessors along the hallway.”

“I’m afraid that with the amount of sauce you requested, sir, the bread has no structural integrity, making transportation impossible. You’ll need to come eat it in the dining room.” 

Lister scowled. Three million years into the future, and still, the closest thing the universe had to Scotch-Guarded bread was that time Kryten made a tartan dust ruffle for Talkie Toaster. No wonder the human race had died out without him. “All right, I’ll be there in a mo. But here, get a look at this.” He waved the empty tube at Kryten and smirked. “I think Rimmer’s doped himself with the confidence virus. He’s got that exam today, and let me tell ya, the smegger’s been totally blasted since 5:30 this morning. Maybe he’ll break into that interpretive dance again – I’m gonna get me sarny and go watch. Seeing him thrown out of that exam’s exactly what the medicomp ordered; always good for a laugh!”

Lister snickered in anticipation, but when he looked at Kryten, he noticed that the mineral oil had drained from the mechanoid’s face, leaving him ashen and distressed. “Oh dear, sir, you really think he’s taken the entire tube?” Kryten fretted. “This is very serious!”

Lister shook his head, then winced as the pain surged. “Relax, Kryten, it’s just artificial confidence, and he’s a hologram anyhow. The only thing it can hurt is his pride, and believe me, once he comes down, I’ll pay him back, plus interest, for all the headache he’s caused, but – ”

“Pardon the interruption, sir, but please, you don’t understand! This is no common space cold, and has the potential to cause very severe illness, possibly even death. Dr. Lanstrom’s notes indicated that the confidence virus has been known to provoke not only the standard fever attendant to most illnesses, but also extreme hyperthermia, or overheating, as patients may experience feelings of such boundless energy and optimism that they run at extremely high speeds, shout at intense volumes, or engage in other profitless, impractical exhibitions of recklessness that raise temperature and blood pressure, and stress several other vital functions. In Mr. Rimmer’s case, not only does he risk the same symptoms as a living human, but his temperature or T-count could rise to such an extent that his light bee malfunctions, or even melts entirely.”

Lister shrugged. “It can’t be that bad; he seemed fine to me. I mean, he’s acting all happy, which is creepy as all get-out, but it’s just a 24-hour bug, right? Won’t his natural defenses fight it off soon?”

“Even 24 hours is a very long time for Mr. Rimmer’s light bee to sustain that level of output, sir. What’s more, it’s difficult to anticipate how Mr. Rimmer’s virtual immune system will cope with a real-life, non-digital attacker. The symptoms could last much longer, possibly for days or even weeks. And perhaps worst of all, sir, in a manic state of sheer confidence, Mr. Rimmer will not be thinking realistically. He already lacks any insight into his own incompetence, but now, he may well experience extreme delusions of grandeur, which could endanger the entire ship.”

Lister frowned. “Yeah… now that you mention it, he did say something about trying to upgrade the recyc system later today.” 

“He’s going to try to install a hydroelectric artificial intelligence unit?! But, but sir!” Kryten sputtered, “Mr. Rimmer is neither a qualified recycling service technician nor a plumber with any relevant skills or training! He doesn’t even have the mandatory low-sagging trousers! What are we going to do? We have to stop him immediately!”

“Kryten, would you give it a rest already?” Lister pleaded, reaching up to massage his aching temples and glancing around in search of relief. “Rimmer’s a hologram, and he’s a total gimboid at anything mechanical. What’s the worst he could do to the recyc tanks?” He instantly regretted the question.

“Sir, in his hard light form, Mr. Rimmer can do anything that a human could do! And need I remind you that the last time Mr. Rimmer attempted to tackle a mechanical problem on his own, he annihilated himself and 1,167 others in an impressive, if not record-setting, fourteen seconds? Particularly in this state, I would not expect him to have learned from his mistake, and in the main recyc tanks, the damage he could do is quite literally astronomical! He could reverse the purification flow and contaminate all the water, he could jettison the tanks and flood the boiler decks, he could even turn off the artificial gravity and drown everyone on board!”

Kryten’s incessant panicking was making Lister’s head pound harder than the Kop on a Sunday, and he groaned. “Kryten, this hangover is already trying to kill me; the last thing I want to do is go gallivanting about the recyc tanks trying to babysit a deranged Rimmer. I’m beggin’ ya, can’t we just deactivate him remotely, like when he had that other virus?”

“An apt suggestion, sir, but there are two core problems. First, Mr. Rimmer has been self-sustaining ever since Mr. Legion enabled hard light on his projection bee. He is no longer routed through the ship’s interface, so I’m afraid it isn’t possible to simply turn him off. Second, even if we could disable Mr. Rimmer, we still don’t know how a real-life virus can affect a hologram or its light bee, and the risks could be substantial. Turning off Mr. Rimmer’s bee in the middle of an infection could, for instance, cause the virus to permanently embed itself in Mr. Rimmer’s coding!” Kryten waddled over to a tray on the other side of the medibay, and retrieved a hypospray and a small tube of liquid. “I can administer some tri-energy compound for the hangover, but then I really must insist we take action!” 

“All right, Kryten, fine, just gimme the shot first.” Lister rolled his eyes and pulled his locks to the right as Kryten prepared the spray, and he winced as the cold aerosol penetrated his neck. “But if we can’t turn him off, what exactly are we going to do when we find him? Trap him? Tackle him? Tell him knock-knock jokes until he spasms?” He rubbed the injection spot absently, and felt the pain and fog in his head rapidly begin to clear. He glanced back at the virus tray and picked one up. “Actually, couldn’t we just try to knock the confidence out with a second positive virus? There’s one for self-control, right?”

“Yes sir, there is a strain known as _temporare sibi_ , which promotes feelings of discipline, focus, and modesty. In fact, it is the lavender one to your left, sir. But I must caution that such an approach could be extremely hazardous to Mr. Rimmer’s health. Positive or not, these are still infectious foreign bodies which can harm or even kill their host, particularly if the subject is already weakened. For all we know, Mr. Rimmer’s defenses could be losing the battle against the confidence virus already, and infecting him with a second one, even a counteractive one, could well push him over the edge. I would recommend a sedative instead, sir.”

“You mean knock him out? We can’t exactly chloroform a guy who doesn’t need to breathe, ya know.”

“No, but just as Mr. Rimmer was able to ingest the virus, so long as he remains in hard light form, he can be injected with a compound and should be susceptible to the effects,” Kryten explained as he rummaged through the supply cabinet. He paused, and a look of concern flashed across his face. “How curious, I could have sworn to Silicon Heaven that Starbug carried more, but somehow we have only one vial of Dopium! It’s a powerful muscle relaxant and sedative that – ”

“I know what it does, Kryten,” Lister said quickly, glancing away and then awkwardly clearing his throat. “All right, let’s split up. I’ll check the recyc tank deck and go lock up the tanks; you take the hypo and go wait by his exam. A dollarpound says Rimmer gets the space-bum’s rush in the next ten minutes. Whatever you do, don’t let him touch me sarny; I’m coming back for it.”

Kryten nodded, and as he loaded the hypospray with the sedative, Lister picked up the self-control virus and slipped it into an inner pocket under his jacket. 

“Sir, what are you doing?” Kryten asked. “I just explained - ”

“It’s not for Rimmer, Kryten, it’s for me. Otherwise, if I have to spend even five more minutes with that smeghead, I can't promise I won't strangle him.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Time.”

Rimmer straightened up, loudly cracked several vertebrae in rapid succession, and sighed in satisfaction. In three hours, he had managed to fully diagram, illustrate, and detail the inner workings of Red Dwarf and other Solar-Class 5 mining vessels, along with a full complement of anatomically proportionate crew members of various ranks and duties. True, he hadn’t gotten around to answering the question verbally, but that wasn’t where the points were. Words and numbers were overrated, and it was a rookie mistake to think that points were dispensed for providing technically correct answers. No, where mathematics was concerned, creative thinking was always lauded. This was a masterpiece, and he knew the computer would have no choice but to pass him, if not commission him a fleet right then and there. This was it! He had done it! With misty eyes and tremendous pride, he dramatically rose from his seat, sauntered over to the computer, and inserted his paper with a flourish. Gripping the receipt that popped out a moment later, Rimmer held it over his heart and took a deep bow, followed by a lengthy, lengthy salute. Any moment now, he had no doubt he would be vindicated! 

The computer began clicking rapidly and beeped a sputtering alarm as faint traces of mysterious blue smoke began to rise from its intake slot. Surprised at first, Rimmer’s eyes grew wide as he realized the full magnitude of what was happening – the machine was so impressed that it was giving him a 21-gun salute! What an honor! He didn’t even wait to see the printed result before soaring out of the room; he knew he had passed with the highest score ever awarded to a _former_ second technician. “Victory, thy name is R-R-R-R-Rimmer!” He trilled in ecstasy at the top of his lungs as he charged down the corridor. 

In the furthest, deepest recesses of his mind, Rimmer was very faintly aware that something didn’t seem quite right, and yet he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so good. His thoughts surged past him at ten thousand geegooks a second, in a fantastical blur of colors and sounds and memories and emotions, all overwhelmingly positive. He was completely at one with the universe now, and he couldn’t recall why exactly he had spent so much time in life convinced that he was destined for failure. To the contrary, he was unstoppable! The worst thing that could happen to someone, death, he’d already experienced and overcome, and it had barely even affected him. Been there, done that, got the light bee. 

Though he never appreciated it before, he’d actually been an incredibly lucky person long before he’d ever taken the virus. He of all people had the incredible good fortune to not only be resurrected as a hologram, but to be gifted with the miracle of a hard light drive, making him virtually indestructible! He didn’t need food or water or oxygen; he could be punched and stabbed and crushed without the slightest bruise. He could leap off the top deck railing on Red Dwarf, and so long as he switched to soft light as he hurdled towards the boilers several thousand decks below, he could survive any impact without even feeling pain. True, he couldn’t touch anything in while soft light, but that also meant nothing could touch him either – not bazookoid fire, not enraged simulants, and best of all, not Lister’s never-been-washed hands or inadvertently curried clothing. With the structural strength of his hard light, the total intangibility of soft light, and the power to toggle between the two, he was invincible! In fact, he was just like the superheroes he’d admired as a boy! He couldn’t believe he’d never noticed it before! Move over, Man of Steel, and make way for Holoman! He was stronger than Iron Man, more agile than Spiderman, and with the whole universe under his protection, authority, and control, he felt just like –


	6. Chapter 6

“Batman?” Lister’s face corkscrewed as he stared at Kryten on a wall-mounted monitor screen in the tank deck, unable and unwilling to believe his ears. “What d’ya mean you saw Batman, Kryten? You’re not makin’ sense; have you blown a head fuse? Where are you, and what the smeg’s going on?” 

“I’m sorry, sir!” Kryten blubbered. “As I was heading towards the exam room, Mr. Rimmer sprinted past me and went into the changing room near the mini-gym! When I caught up to him, he had broken into the late Mr. Ackerman’s locker, and was wearing a…a… oh, it’s too horrible!” 

Lister would have given anything to be able to reach through the screen and shake the bawling mechanoid. “Don’t dance around it, Kryten,” he shouted, “if Rimmer’s on the loose and totally wacko, we haven’t got time! Pull yourself together, man! What are you trying to tell me?”

“Of course you’re right, sir. Very well, blunt mode.” There was a brief chirrup from Kryten’s diodes as his voice and expression both calmed. “Sir, last month, you insisted I join you in a screening of a reprehensible film entitled, ‘Infinite Batman: The Revengening’. Having endured all four-and-a-half hours of that monstrosity, I am more than qualified to offer the opinion that Mr. Rimmer is currently dressed in a fluorescent green Batman suit, complete with a horned mask and a rather eye-strainingly bright cape. Now I’m not one to speculate on these matters, sir, but I frankly can’t understand why such a hideous garment should even exist! Reflective, chartreuse spandex is not only an egregious violation of the dress code for personnel of any rank in the Jupiter Mining Corporation, but I think you’ll agree that as a tactical matter, it is also a highly inappropriate choice of attire for Mr. Batman or even Mr. Robin as well. Why Mr. Rimmer would seek out this attire, or even why Mr. Ackerman would have owned such a useless outfit, entirely escapes me!”

“Enough, Kryten, never mind it!” Lister finally managed to spit out, shaking his head vigorously in a futile effort to repress the thought of Rimmer prancing about in a used neon catsuit. “The point is, Rimmer’s clearly gone off the deep end, and we’ve got to stop him before he, well, gets into the actual deep end! You’ve got to get down here to the tanks; he’s bound to show up soon and I haven’t got anything that can stop him. And if he really is dressed like that, I’m beggin’ you, man, don’t make me tackle him!” 

“No indeed, sir; in fact, I’m afraid that’s no longer plausible.”

“Eh? What do you mean ‘no longer plausible’? Did his light bee snap; has he gone soft light or something?”

“Not quite, sir, but along vaguely similar lines. I’m afraid that Mr. Rimmer fled from the locker room on seeing me, and by the time I caught up with him, he was already in the kitchen.”

“What, like for a snack? So what?” Lister’s eyes suddenly grew wide, and his voice dropped. “He didn’t eat me sarny, did he?”

“No, sir,” Kryten said, and Lister sighed in relief, only to immediately tense back up as Kryten continued. “For reasons that are unfathomable to anyone beyond Mr. Rimmer, he went to the cupboard, removed several bottles of Caesar salad cream, and proceeded to apply the contents to his body in a way that a less utterly insane person might apply sun cream. I believe Mr. Rimmer was hallucinating, as he was shouting something about the oil helping him move faster than a Mr. Flash. He then fled out the back corridor, but I don’t know which direction he headed.”

Lister stared uncomprehendingly. After a long pause, he dropped his head in his hands. “Kryten,” he asked slowly, his voice muffled and strained, “are you trying to tell me that we’re three million years into deep space, and we have a psychotic, indestructible, _greased_ hologram on a rampage in this ship?”

“Yes, sir.” Kryten said as Lister nodded, rubbed his eyes, and looked up blearily. “What’s worse,” Kryten continued, “the oil will further restrict Mr. Rimmer’s ability to release heat, worsening his delirium and perhaps halving or even quartering the time we have left before he reaches a critical fever. With all due respect, sir, I _told_ you that salad cream should go in the refrigerator! At least then it might have helped cool Mr. Rimmer down and bought us some extra time!”

Lister glared at the mechanoid in disbelief. “Yes, Kryten, I suppose I should have seen this coming, seeing as how Rimmer routinely enjoys bathing in condiments!” He snapped. “Happens all the time, doesn’t it? That’s our Rimmer, can’t leave him alone with the barbecue sauce! Yes, this was downright predictable! And before ya try to blame me for this, we wouldn’t even have salad cream on board if ya didn’t make me eat those smegging greens twice a year! I told ya they did more harm than good, didn’t I?!”

Kryten dropped his head, embarrassed. “Blunt mode cancel. Of course you’re right, sir. I apologize for the outburst; I hope you can forgive me.” Lister’s anger instantly dissolved, and he sighed.

“Look, I’m sorry too, man. It’s not your fault Rimmer’s gone nuts. We just have to keep it together long enough to find him and get him under control, all right? Come on, just get down here to the tanks.” 

Suddenly, a pink and black blur slammed into Kryten, knocking the mechanoid over to the right, and his face was replaced erratically on the screen with the Cat’s, who was twisting and zigzagging with his nose in the air. “Fish!” he shouted ecstatically into the camera as he rapidly moved in and out of frame. “I smell fish! This is not a drill; we got fish coming in on both nostrils, aow yeah!” Lister could hear Kryten’s muffled cries from the floor as the Cat danced around on his back panels.

“Cat! Get the smeg off of Kryten, and get out of the way! There’s no fish here!” Lister shouted, but the Cat didn’t hear, didn’t care, or both, continuing to screech and gyrate. Lister’s heart began to sink. Oh smeg, was Rimmer’s virus contagious? Was he next? What was he going to do? But just as Lister was beginning to panic, Kryten managed to wriggle out from under the Cat, and struggled to his feet. 

“He may be smelling the anchovies in Mr. Rimmer’s salad cream, sir,” Kryten grunted as he dusted himself off and forced his various panels back into place. “If so, maybe he can lead us to Mr. Rimmer!”

“Of course! Cat, can you track the smell? Go with Kryten, go find the fish! I’ll even let you keep whatever you catch, alright? Just go find it, quick!”

The Cat shrieked with joy, and began sniffing frantically, but instead of moving down the corridor, he spun around repeatedly, trying to pinpoint the aroma. “I don’t understand, it – hey wait, it’s getting stronger!” He shouted in gleeful surprise. “The fish is getting closer! I think it’s coming this way!”

Sure enough, half a second later, a slippery, neon-green shiny thing shot past the camera and down the corridor, squishing and sliding with every step and jabbering nonsensically. The Cat’s eyes almost exploded out of his skull, and he let out a loud whoop. Lister could see every hair on the Cat’s body began to quiver, and as the feline vibrated faster and faster, he sank to all fours and slowly dropped below the screen, preparing to pounce just as Kryten was priming the sedative.

“Cat, wait!” Lister yelled. But it was too late, and with an explosion of movement, the Cat soared high into the air and took off like a bazookoid shot down the corridor after Rimmer, bowling Kryten over a second time. Kryten again staggered to his feet, apologized profusely, and dizzily raced after the pair. Lister stared at the now-empty screen for a moment, trying to psychologically brace himself, before realizing that he had yet to actually lock the deck’s doors or seal the tanks. _Oh smeg!_


	7. Chapter 7

Lister barely had time to process the turn of events before Rimmer and the Cat came barreling in at the far end of the decks. He watched in helpless horror as Rimmer shot up the eight-foot tank ladder in a blur, and swan-dove into the tank of cleaned, recycled water. The Cat followed him up the ladder, but then sat down at the tank’s edge, hissing and swiping at Rimmer every time the hologram swam by in a series of laps. 

“Cat, what are ya doing?!” Lister shouted, “We have to get him out of there now! He’s gonna destroy the tanks!”

“Don’t look at me like that, monkey, cats don’t go swimming! Especially not in this outfit! You think ‘dry clean only’ is just a suggestion?” 

Just then Kryten barreled in, and still carrying the sedative, rushed over towards Lister, who let out a massive sigh of relief. “Oh thank god, Rimmer’s in the tank and I can’t swim! Even if you can’t pull him out, just reach in there and hold him off for a bit so I can drain the tank!” 

But instead of springing into action, Kryten fidgeted with the hypospray, and began to stammer with anxiety. “S-S-Sir, I can’t g-g-go in there, the 4000 series i-isn’t waterpr-pr-proof!” 

As Lister let out a tidal wave of frustration and swore up a storm, a completely oblivious Rimmer was giggling in euphoria as he surged through the warm water, pushing off each end of the oblong pool and gliding along the edges. Having no need to breathe, he could go as far as he liked without needing to surface, but evidently he couldn’t resist showing off his top-notch swimming skills to the rapt audience surrounding the tank, so he repeatedly pirouetted out of the water and crashed back down with a resounding splash.

Both mere inches and an entire reality away, Lister desperately dug through the detritus around the bottom edge of the tank, searching for anything that could be of value, or if nothing else, the tank’s emergency drain. A pencil? Useless. Old maintenance reports? Useless. A harpoon gun? Useless! Wait! Lister picked up the harpoon, grabbed the sedative from Kryten, and doused the blade as thoroughly as he could in the drug. He quickly scaled the tank ladder up to the edge, and braced himself. He had one shot to get this right. He waited until Rimmer surfaced by leaping into the air like a deranged dolphin, and fired.

But as Rimmer soared into the air this time, his light bee suddenly glitched, momentarily freezing a Rimmer-shaped frame of static and buzzing soft light in midair, and allowing the spear to effortlessly glide through him. Rimmer didn’t appear to suffer any damage at all, though his non-hologrammatic costume suddenly dropped back down into the tank, where it floated murkily on the surface. To Lister’s horror, the spear continued onwards, in a clear trajectory towards – 

“Cat, duck!”

“Ducks?!” The Cat’s eyes lit up as he whipped around in search of waterfowl. Just as he turned his back, the drugged harpoon buried itself in his left shoulder. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” The Cat shrieked, “Look what you’ve done to my jacket! You’ve killed it! You can’t repair suede!” With a screech, he yanked out the harpoon, and leapt down from the tank to go lick his wound.

Lister swore loudly, and started rewinding the harpoon as fast as he could. He’d deal with the Cat in a moment; for now, Rimmer was still the first priority, and as the hologram’s light bee struggled back to hard light, Rimmer belly-flopped back under the water with a tremendous splash. When he resurfaced, Lister was relieved to find that Rimmer’s light bee had at least managed to get him back in a hologrammatic uniform, though it continued to seize and glitch, flickering back and forth between hard and soft light and changing colors repeatedly. If he even noticed, Rimmer didn’t seem perturbed by the errors, but as the water refracted the flashing lights like a disco ball, Lister kept losing his focus, and his headache began to return. He was running out of patience, and even worse, his only sedative was now gone. He couldn’t think under all this chaos! Reaching hastily into his jacket, Lister pulled out the self-control virus and uncapped it. The vial was halfway to his lips before it occurred to him.

“I’m sorry for this, man, I hope it doesn’t kill ya but I’ve got no choice!” He tipped the harpoon back and tried to pour the lavender gunge over the blade, but as might be expected of a self-control virus, it resisted any movement. Impatient, Lister smashed the vial instead, covering the barbed spearhead in the viscous goo and multiple shards of broken glass. It would take a hell of a lot more than just self-control to survive a hit from one of these, but Lister was out of options. 

He assumed the position a second time, crossed his fingers, uncrossed them, crossed the fingers on his non-firing hand instead, and pulled the trigger. The harpoon landed a direct hit just as Rimmer was preparing to dive. The blade shot through his right buttock and held firm. With a shriek, Rimmer tried to flip to soft-light, but the light bee didn’t respond. “Battleship!” Lister yelled, and dropping his head for a half-second in relief, but he had to move quickly, before the bee glitched again. As Kryten rushed over to assist, Lister called on his inner longshoreman and began to heave on the harpoon winch, dragging Rimmer, who continued to struggle, rapidly through the water. 

“Hurry, Kryten, get the net! It’s a 70-incher!” With a final keel-haul, they hoisted Rimmer out of the tank and catapulted him onto the floor below. In a pained daze, Rimmer continued to flail and flap about on the metal grate, his eyes wide and unblinking, his mouth wordlessly gaping and closing as he tried to form words. As the new virus took hold, though, he slowed. Several looks of confusion crossed and contorted his face as confidence and self-control battled for dominance. He laughed uproariously, then silenced, proudly splayed his limbs in a come-hither pose, then covered himself in horror, leapt to his feet, then twisted in a spasm as every muscle contracted and froze at once. His eyes flickered, slated, and were replaced by the spinning beach balls of a complete hologrammatic fit. Then, just as quickly as they had locked, Rimmer’s muscles all simultaneously released, dropping him to the floor in a wet, smelly heap. 

“Rimmer?” Lister climbed down from the ladder and lightly kicked the harpoon sticking out from Rimmer’s backside, but got no response. As he inspected the hologrammatic flotsam, the Cat staggered over, reeling from side to side, slammed into Lister, and laughed hysterically into his face as Lister struggled to support the Cat’s weight. Independent of each other, the Cat’s pupils rapidly toggled between nearly filling the entire iris and shrinking to the tiniest pinprick, and back again. Cat giggled, then guffawed, then flopped over onto his back, his hands and feet weakly bicycling in the air for a few seconds before he hiccupped and passed out.

Wheezing and exhausted, Lister nodded. “Good idea, guys.” He sank to his knees, rolled on his side, and sprawled out on the floor next to the prostrate hologram and strung-out feline. “Give us a mo, Kryten,” he panted. “It’s been a hell of a morning.”


	8. Chapter 8

Rimmer awoke to find himself restrained to a bed in the medibay by several lengths of thick white rope wrapped around his torso. He frowned, and struggled mildly against the rigging, to no avail. He felt as weak as a kitten with rickets, and was struck by how sore every muscle in his body felt with even the slightest movement. Just as his memory began to return, a large piece of well-chewed bubble gum appeared in his frame of vision, and peered down at him with those innocent, perky little eyes that annoyed Rimmer so very much. 

“Mr. Rimmer, sir, you’re awake at last!” Kryten cried. “Oh, thank heavens, you’ve been asleep for nearly two days; we were really beginning to worry!” 

“What do you mean, asleep for two days? How could I have slept for two days; I’m completely knackered! And why on Triton have you tied me down? Let me go!”

“In a moment, sir, I just need to first assess your condition.”

Rimmer snarled. “Look, Mechannie Wilkes, I’m in enough misery without any help from you and your antics. I order you to release me this instant!”

“All I need to know, sir, is can you get yourself out of there?”

Both squinting and slack-jawed, Rimmer’s face froze halfway between contempt and incredulity. “Can I get myself…? Of course not, you stupid goit, you’ve tied me to the smegging bed! These ropes are tighter than an octogenarian’s speedo!” He roared. “‘Can I get myself out of there’? Have you lost your witless mechanical mind?!” The more ferocious Rimmer became, the brighter and more joyous Kryten looked, in an ever-worsening cycle.

“Oh, sir, it’s a miracle! Look, Mr. Rimmer has no remaining trace whatsoever of either confidence or self-control!” Kryten stepped back triumphantly, and Rimmer saw Lister sidle up to the bed, smirking at him before dropping into a chair and kicking his stinky feet up onto Rimmer’s bed near the helpless hologram’s face. Just as Rimmer was about to unleash a second tirade, Kryten interrupted him.

“Mr. Rimmer, sir, try switching to soft-light mode. If your light bee is sufficiently recovered, you should be able to transcend the restraints without a problem.”

Embarrassed but unwilling to show it, Rimmer grit his teeth and grunted. He paused, concentrated, and felt his physical form disappear in a flash. The cords dropped through him and hit the sheets. Rimmer sat up slowly, trying to ignore the incredible pain all over his body, which only grew worse when he switched back to hard light a moment later.

“Oh sir, your light bee has healed perfectly, how incredibly fortuitous!” Kryten clasped his hands together in joy, and Rimmer scowled.

“Fortuitous, Kryten? Yes, some smegging luck virus that was; look what it’s brought me! I’ve been infected, persecuted, harpooned, humiliated, drugged, restrained, and, if this pain is any evidence, probably flensed! Though I suppose being stuck with you lot, I’m already the unluckiest man in the universe; I must have been mad to expect anything else.”

“Er, no sir, I’m afraid you never actually took the luck virus. So far as we can tell, you took a virus that inspires self-confidence and boldness. Normally it’s brief and harmless, but you consumed a dose so large that it completely infected your light bee. We had no choice but to sedate and restrain you, and wait out the infection.”

Rimmer’s snarl faded, replaced with a look somewhere between confusion and indigestion, the one he usually got whenever Lister played his entire collection of Rastabilly Skank at once. _Confidence?_ It made perfect, terrible sense. “It was confidence?” he finally asked weakly. “All that energy and euphoria I felt was confidence? It can’t be; I’ve never felt anything like that!” 

Lister snickered as Kryten wrung his hands in embarrassment and hastily continued. “Yes, sir, and furthermore, I’m afraid that due to the severity of your infection, the scanner shows that you produced a substantial number of antibodies to combat the virus. Consequently, you are now immunized for life against any further infection by the confidence virus.”

“Immunized?” Rimmer’s heart sank. “What do you mean? I’ll never feel confidence again?”

“Not necessarily, sir, you’re only immune to the virally-induced confidence; in that another dose of the virus would not produce any effects on you. The virus isn’t distilled confidence itself, but once it enters the body, it stimulates a hormonal and immune reaction which, as a side effect, causes tremendous overproduction of endorphins, inducing the feelings of confidence and motivation. As a result, you should still be capable of experiencing natural confidence, just as you would experience any other mood produced by your own mind.”

“So I won’t feel like that again until I have confidence naturally? Until I feel inspired by pride, motivation, a sense of worth, all that nonsense?”

“Precisely, sir!”

“I won’t feel that ecstasy, that inner peace and self-assurance, until I accomplish something? Until I pass the exams and become an officer?”

“Or until you achieve some other goal, sir, such as a meaningful relationship, a personal milestone, or a different professional ambition.”

“Oh for smeg’s sake!” Rimmer hissed. Folding his arms and turning away from the duo, he began to sulk. After a moment, though, he noticed that Kryten’s face had perched over his right shoulder, with a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes. 

“Sir,” the mechanoid asked quietly but with a distinct, illicit excitement, “Can I ask you…what was it like during…? You know, towards the end?” His brow ridge wiggled mischievously.

“What was what like, you gibbering gimboid?” Rimmer spat through clenched teeth.

“The ambivalence, sir, when you were infected with both confidence, a highly expressive emotion, and self-control, an extremely restrictive one. Mechanoids are not capable of sustaining two contradictory emotions at once, and so I find ambivalence to be the most impressive of all human emotions. Your performance was masterful, sir, and let me just say that it was a privilege to see your interpretation!” 

Rimmer snarled. “Kryten, you have five seconds to get out of my sight before you get a front row ticket to my interpretation of a mechanoid being disassembled and ejected out of the three closest airlocks!” He reached out to grab Kryten by the scruff, but instead swore silently as the pain caused his arm to freeze and hover inches above Kryten’s shoulder for several seconds.

“Er…oh dear. Awkwardness aversion mode. Congratulations on your recovery, sir, but please excuse me; I’m sure you need your rest.” Kryten politely ducked under Rimmer’s arm and then scurried out of the medibay. Rimmer gingerly retracted his arm and turned towards Lister, who was still leaning back in his chair and grinning. “That goes double for you, Lister,” Rimmer sneered. “Do you have any idea what the penalty is for willfully and intentionally harpooning a superior technician in the rump, let alone maliciously infecting him with a dangerous, untested virus? I could court-martial you under aerospace, military, or maritime law!”

Lister shrugged, still smirking. “Yeah, man, I’m sure you could. But look, there is one upside to it all.” He dropped his feet back to the floor, reached over, and picked up a piece of paper from a tray by Rimmer’s bed. “I checked the exam computer while you were out, and… you passed.” Lister held up a large ivory certificate, printed on the ship’s finest heavyweight paper, trimmed with gold foil, and bearing Rimmer’s name in bold, crisp lettering.

For a long pause, Rimmer sat perfectly still, except that his nostrils began to twitch rapidly as he stared. He swallowed hard, and in a barely audible squeak, asked, “I – I passed? I passed Beginning Astronav?”

“Astronav? No, man, of course you failed that again. You took con _fid_ ence, not com _pet_ ence. Come on, you submitted a drawing, for smeg’s sake. Though it does seem you’ve got some weird sort of artsy talent – you inspired the marking computer to follow its dreams and start studying to be a satnav instead. Won’t be easy to fix; four reboots later, and it’s still insisting we call it Siri.” He shook his head slightly, and waited for Rimmer’s retort, but Rimmer just stared at the paper in silence. “Well anyhow, what I was gonna say was, you passed your final swimming test. Thirty laps in four minutes while in the course of business, especially as sick as you were? You’ve earned yourself a gold swimming certificate.” Lister tossed the paper onto the bed and kept talking as he got up and sauntered over to the door, smirking. He was probably cracking some rude joke about Rimmer’s finishing time in the tank, but Rimmer wasn’t listening. Instead, he sat paralyzed, his eyes transfixed on the certificate.

“Right, Lister, in a moment,” he mumbled, still staring as Lister shook his head and walked out. For a moment, all was quiet in the medibay. Rimmer stood up slowly, resolute even as his face twinged from pain, and picked up the certificate, examining it carefully under the harsh fluorescent lights. Setting it gently back on the bedside tray, he paused, and then rotated it carefully one-quarter inch to the left. He stepped back, adjusted his sleeve cuffs, and slowly extended his right arm, wincing. He did his best to salute through the pain, carefully placed his arm down at his side, and gave the paper a curt nod. 

But as soon as he looked away, his thoughts turned forward, and the anxious voices began to chatter again with a vengeance. True, he was now Arnold J. Rimmer, Bsc, Ssc, Gsc, and that had to count for something, but it hardly changed the fact that he’d failed his astronavs a fourteenth time, and was already 48 hours behind on revising for the fifteenth. He needed to start planning his timetable-making strategy, and to sew another pocket on his jumpsuit for a backup slide rule, and to order at least a 20-pack of fresh felt-tips – no wonder he’d failed again! Reminders and reprimands quickly swarmed in from all sides, and he wearily closed his eyes. He just had to keep on trying. This many consecutive exam failures couldn’t all have been his fault, right? Sooner or later, his luck would have to change. With a sigh, he opened his eyes, turned towards the corridor, and slowly limped out.


End file.
